Harry had been waiting outside of her door for an hour or so when Hermione opened it and leaned out slightly. She said vaguely to the air in front of her nose, "I'd like a vegetable wrap without mayonnaise and a mineral water." She closed the door.

Harry sighed and got up.

Ten minutes later, he knocked at her door, awkwardly balancing a tray with one hand. He had just gone to the hotel's restaurant so it hadn't taken him long to acquire the food and drink.

Hermione opened the door and looked at him loftily. She pursed her lips and then opened the door wider. "I suppose you'd better come in."

Harry followed her into a comfortable sitting room with three sofas, a glass coffee table, and a television attached to a VCR. Hermione motioned for him to put the tray on the coffee table and sat imperiously down. She took the wrap and bit into it appreciatively. She chewed for a bit before looking at Harry.

"Aren't you going to have something? You don't look as if you could afford to skip a meal."

Harry shrugged. "I had a big breakfast."

She narrowed her eyes at him, then looked back to her lunch. "You can take the lid off that," she nodded to the bottle. "And you may as well make yourself comfortable. You'll be working with me for at least another few hours, as per McGonagall's request." Hermione took out a book from beside her, half-hidden behind one of the many cushions the sofa held.

Self-conscious, Harry sat down on a sofa adjacent to her own and stared down at his hands that rested on his knees. He didn't want to bother the snotty girl for something to read, or to ask if he could turn on the telly. He had lived fifteen long years with the Dursleys. He knew when to stay as quiet and still as humanly possible.

He let his mind and his eyes wander. Hermione Granger's suite was large and richly furnished. It had to definitely be costing her a few hundred a night to be staying here. But the very fact that she warranted a gofer of her own, and her age, meant that she was probably an actress; probably the main one, at that. She was pretty, Harry supposed, but not in the way he had expected an actress to be pretty. Certainly her skin was clear and her teeth were even and white: she was thin; but in a natural fashion – not like those who starved and threw up and had a sickly pallor – and her eyes were a deep cinnamon shade. Her hair fairly swallowed her head, though, and she seemed more suited to walking down sidewalks than runways, even though her clothes were all designer – right down to the probably-cost-fifteen-pounds-on-sale socks.

Harry looked down at his own clothes in silent embarrassment. He'd been designated Dudley's outgrown clothing for as long as he could remember. The clothes weren't overly dingy, because Dudley outgrew them quickly – in girth, if not in height; but they were too large on Harry's slight frame. The only clothes he had that fit were Mrs. Weasley's annual knitted sweaters for Christmas, and Harry had to admit that it was a bit warm out to be wearing them.

Harry looked at the book Hermione was reading: 'The Selected Works of Edna St. Vincent Millay'. He had no idea who that was. Hermione seemed intent, however, and her lips moved as she read.

He looked over at the television. Scattered movie cases were strewn on top of it. Harry couldn't read their titles from here, but none of them looked familiar, so were probably not new releases. Other than that, there was no discernable mess in the room. Harry liked that, because it meant he wouldn't have to clean up; but he also disliked it because without any comfortable mess, he had nothing to do, and no way to gauge this strange girl's temperament.

"You." Hermione's voice snapped like a whip.

Harry glanced quickly at her, startled. "Yes?"

"I'm bored here, cooped up. I want to go shopping."

Harry stood. "Alright."

Hermione's eyes widened, then narrowed rapidly. She put her book aside and stood as well, arms crossed confrontationally over her chest. "That's it? Alright? No screeching about people recognizing me and mobbing me in the street?"

"I reckon if you want to shop, you should shop. If people mob you, they mob you. You can't stop it."

Hermione's lips twitched in what suspiciously looked like a smile. "I think I'm going to actually like you." She winked conspirationally. "Don't tell McGonagall. I think the old bat'd faint from the shock."

Hermione had tried to disguise herself a little by putting on a headscarf and sunglasses. Harry had pointed out that these made her more conspicuous, not less, and she reluctantly agreed. She pouted, however, and said, "But it would've been such fun – just like James Bond movies."

They exited through the back way and endeavored to look like two normal teenagers out on the town. They didn't quite pull it off: Harry was too waif-like and Hermione too regal. Still, no one made special note of them as they went past, which was fortunate.

Hermione wanted to go to the bookstore first off. Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief; he'd been dreading following her into a clothing store, waiting for her as she tried on garment after garment. He trailed after her dutifully in the store, noting only that they were in the religious section, and then in the science one. They traveled to the history section, Hermione accumulating more books and promptly dumping them into Harry's arms. He didn't mind, for most of them were paperback, and he wasn't weak. Nearly all he weighed was muscle, even if he didn't weigh that much.

Hermione made a quick stop in literature, and then made for the till. The clerk was a grandmotherly woman whose eyes widened at the sight of all the books. She rang them up, totaling three hundred pounds: Harry's eyes widened in shock as he saw Hermione hand over her credit card calmly. That was more money than he saw in a year; in five years.

He ended up carrying the resulting bags, of course.

They had stopped for a snack at Fortescue's Ice Cream Emporium. Hermione got a strawberry-swirl cone and looked quizzically at Harry when he didn't order. "I'm not hungry," he replied to the unspoken question.

It wasn't a lie. Mrs. Weasley had fed him stack upon stack of pancakes that morning, and for Harry, that was more than he usually saw all day. The Dursleys didn't starve him or anything; they just forgot he existed, so forgot to save him food at meals (though he was the one to cook them), and he couldn't just take something out of the refrigerator. That would be stealing, as Petunia warned him over and over. But really Harry had no money to pay for the treat.

They sat in a corner booth facing each other. Hermione licked her cone meditatively and said, "I think, after this, I'd like to go to the supermarket."

Part of him wondered, 'Why the supermarket? She can just order in any food she wants.' But Harry had been raised to ask no questions, so he nodded instead and placidly replied, "Alright." He would just watch her and what she bought. After all, answers could be lies, but actions rarely were.

They walked along in silence, Harry swinging Hermione's bags, until they came to the nearest supermarket. Hermione headed straight for the herbs and spices, selecting several kinds. She stared in consternation at her full hands; Harry grabbed shopping basket and she deposited them there gratefully.

She led him down to the produce aisle and selected fresh peaches and grapes. She smelt the peaches before picking them, the look of concentration on her face almost comical. Harry knew from experience when a piece of fruit was bad or good – he'd done most of the Dursleys' shopping since he was twelve – so he stopped her from picking a few that would be overripe by the next day. She also grabbed some oranges and bananas, and then seemed satisfied and left the produce aisle. Harry followed her to the aisle that sold miscellaneous products like cards and bestsellers and yarn. Hermione zeroed in on the yarn, frowning in concentration as she fingered various skeins. She grabbed five balls of faded black wool and piled them on top of the fruit in the basket that hung off of Harry's arm.

They paid for it all (or rather, Hermione did and Harry's eyes again bugged out at the apparent cost of wool), and left for The Leaky Cauldron, Hermione with a pleased look on her face and Harry almost falling over from the weight of the bags on his arms. He'd never felt so much like a pack horse.

Strangely, he didn't mind.